


Not a Normal Man

by Grigiocuore



Category: Psych
Genre: Established Relationship, Homophobic Language, Lassie defending his Happy Ending, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:24:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1780657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grigiocuore/pseuds/Grigiocuore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlton Lassiter hates Greenpeace, squirrels, and on some sour days, half the known world. But what he really can't stand, is trying to wreck someone's chance to happy ending. Rated T for coarse language and mention of homophobia. SHASSIE established relationship, Lassiter/ Juliet friendship. Written for the Day against Homophobia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Normal Man

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Psych-fans! I've already written tons of stories about our favorite gang, but I thought that a story against homophobia (in Psych style, of course) would be a good beginning. And who better than our Head Detective can kick a bigot idiot's ass? I know, it wouldn't do much, but this is my way to say everyone not to fear to be yourself, and to be proud of the love and happiness you catch.   
> And let's say it, we all love the hero-side of Lassie's personality. Enjoy.  
> P.S.: Written for the Day against Homophobia, even if I'm shamelessly late.

**Not a Normal Man**

The first time Carlton saw Juliet O'Hara, he was sure the eager-looking doe-eyed newbie wouldn't last more than a week; sure, her service record was spotless and even interesting, but there were problems. She was too kind, too hopeful, too overflowing of sugary good intentions to save the whole world: she didn't realize that being a detective meant more sinking in the world than saving it, more dissecting guilt and rage than giving hope. Detectives picked up the pieces after the vase shattered, not prevent it from falling; and the girl didn't seem to catch it. Until he saw her with her first questioned rogue, full lipsticked lips fastened in a tight line and hands slapping the table, and he recognized in her eyes the same scandal he felt at every crime scene. From then on, he let her slip closer and closer, until she became “O'Hara” and he became “Carlton”. And he was still not sure if blessing or cursing that day in the interrogation room. 

Juliet was his partner; his best friend; his brother, as weird as it may sound. But as much as he denied evidence, she still was a woman: worst of all, she was a Mother Hen woman, and if sometimes it had been the only thing that had kept his pieces together, it could still become _really_ embarrassing. 

From the day of his and Shawn's coming out, she had treated him like a porcelain doll: little things, worried glances when his phone rang, a twitch of the shoulders at every newbie's titter, furtive, _at least in her head_ , inquisitions about their dates. 

He knew perfectly what she was fretting about: that he never come out well from serious relationships, that this time said relationship was with a breakneck allergic to commitment, and that if it ended bad he would wreck his career along with his heart. It was annoying, and it was even more annoying because he feared exactly the same thing. 

It wasn't that he was wary of himself, or even of Shawn: when he decided to really _be_ with someone, he automatically switched on a trust which often led him to smash against painful brick walls. He felt something between chronic distrust and crusader-like faith for very few people; Shawn, and the bunch of misfits he met four years ago were among them. As to say, he probably would still smash against the wall, but cursing Spencer the whole way. 

No, that wasn't the real problem. 

They didn't talk about it, but he could list the cases they found on the reports: _beatings, vandalism, stalking, harassments, assaults. “Queer” or “Whore” carved in a body's skin._

In other words, he was pessimist enough in himself, and didn't need O'Hara's paranoia: he needed her to be his bickering, competitive partner, to understand that he was still the same detective who saved her ass on her first roundup and could handle his own battles; that nothing important had really changed. 

_And maybe convincing himself in the process._

So he was grudgingly overthinking, zoning out and listening to O'Hara at the same time as Shawn taught him. He caught the words “killer” “last night” “autopsy” and he spotted the report in her hand while they were strolling across the station, so he was fairly sure she was talking about the Port Murder and could nod in time. 

-Two testers said the man was still alive at the pier and that the aggressor was short and rather skinny. Maybe a boy?- 

-Or a girl.- he muttered, marching along the glass window of the secretary. -Did he victim have a girlfriend, a sister? A paramour?- 

-A _paramour_? Who still has a pa...- 

-Ehy, you!- the voice was piercing, raging and thick with alcohol. Gosh, he was _so_ glad not to be a patrolman anymore. They kept walking. 

-Yeah, you, the Mr. Bean detective.- 

He froze in mid step, clenching his teeth. He could feel the slowing pace of the other officers, breath hold waiting for the next blow. No one could mock him that way in _his_ station. Not if it didn't go with a caress under the jacket and a smile against the lips. 

-Listen, mister, I don't know how it works in Hoboland, but here we don't...- 

He turned, and cursed softly. 

On the detention bench was a youngster with a gristly beard and little alcohol-sluggish eyes; he resembled quite closely a muddle of old clothes, but he watched him with sheer disdain. 

_Oh, one of them._ He was one of the fanatics of the last morality manifestation. _What a joy._

He didn't know if grimacing or whining, and did both. 

-You're the faggot cop from the other day.- the brownish eyes looked at him with diffidence -Why you're not wearin' one of your little nice dresses, honey?- 

Carlton blinked; and simply _couldn't_ do anything else. During his cop years he had been called with every possible names, from the most banal insults to surreal insinuation about his grandma and a pig, and he had learned to let them brush just his skin: enough to ruffle the fur and snap back, but not to really cut. But they were always been a weapon, another blow among the kicks and punches against that lanky bastard of a detective; they were hurled because of something he did or represented, not for something _he was_. That, that was so _unfair_. 

McNab got slowly up behind him, he recognized the shadow hovering on the floor. -Okay, idiot, I'll tell you that just one time. I'm Head Detective Lassiter, and nothing brightens my day like throwing some reject like you in our cells for outrage to a public officer. And my officers are usually _really_ enthusiast in their job.- 

-Oh, you're Head Detective? You must be pretty good with your mouth, aren't you?- 

If a fly slipped in the precinct in that moment, it would echoed like a Boing engine; or probably it would burn in the star-collision electricity of the atmosphere. 

Just out of his eye O'Hara tensed, features revealing the steel under all her blond softness. Whatever he decided, she would back up him. Maybe insulting him after, but would back up him. 

Carlton swallowed. The astonishment he felt before was becoming so thick it made hard to breath, but it was cracking, and it was changing in something he knew well: anger. 

_Crack_ . 

\- Sorry to disappoint you, moron, but this isn't your cheery bigot friends' garden; this is a police station, and your bullshit is preventing us from doing our job. You're indecent.- 

The bunch of clothes laughed, a pleasant, well-mannered laughter; Lassiter tasted in it years of family Sunday lunches, pressed ceremony suits, a good catholic education rooting deeply in the bones. Exactly like his own. -I'm _indecent_? What about you, eh?- the jerk slurred. -You're going around all dressed up and bossy like you're a normal man, like you have every right to say people if they're doing good or bad, when you want nothin' but run home to your cunt and scream like a little fuckin' bitch; shit, they even let you stay alone _with the kids_.- He spitted out. -You're disgusting.- 

The spit squirted forward, splashing just a inch out of his shoe. Carlton stared at it, still. Even that was new: during his life he had felt inadequate, awkward, embarrassed or plain weird, but not disgusting. It happened only one time, back in that winter; he remembered the cheap Christmas lights around the porch, his father's blank look as he left, and the _fucking cold_ as he running after him. But this time was different: now he wasn't alone anymore, he felt alive, he even risked to be happy, and happiness can't be disgusting; nothing that can tear your heart apart and fill it at the same time can be disgusting. If before it wasn't his battle, now it surely was. 

_And the dumbass would remember that._

He slowly looked up, catching the collective wince around them and feeling as his eyes turned a freezing pale blue. A good cop should cope wittily with his flaws, his tutor always said, and knowing he couldn't really get rid of his stormy anger, he learned to channel it, to modulate it in a shield and an effective weapon. A _very_ effective weapon. It was like crack a dike, and hope your drains are strong enough not to smash under the flood, but by now he knew well both the flood and the drains. 

So, he simply let it flow. 

He took two steps toward the man, saying nothing, and bent to his rodent-like face with a smooth shift; and as everyone nearly jumped up to prevent him from a compromising homicide, he smiled a very disturbing smile. 

-You know, you're right.- he whispered -I _am not_ a normal man. I'm a man who learned the Amendments at eight, who loves the disinfectant smell, who had seen Clint Eastwood golden collection something like fifty times; I'm a man who truly believes in justice and car chasing. And I'm a man who loved another person, a intractable, annoying, thoughtless person and yes, accidentally he's also a man. And while he has thousand of faults, this was not one of them. He's not my “cunt”, I'm not his “bitch”, he's just the one who knows perfectly how I like my Latte on mornings and who I can see myself with twenty years from now. And _this_ is not weird, no more than hundreds of other couples, and surely as hell is not disgusting.- He leaned a little forward, smelling a sour mix of sweat, fruity colony and fear, and the flood pressed just a little more. -Disgusting is a fireman who raped evacuated girls, a body burned by acid and still alive, the moment in a roundup when you turn and your friend's belly is gone in a mess of blood and sticky things. But believing in what you have, trying to reach your _damn happy ending_ is not disgusting; absurd and naive and plainly dumb, but not disgusting. And doing it is difficult enough without having seedy dimwits like you screwed with me.- 

_Now a last touch_ . The grin returned, and it looked a lot like a flash of fangs; a reminder that his arms could really break his neck and his gun holster is not a accessory. -Ah, I almost forgot it: I'm also a man who started to shoot at eight, and is always _eager_ to practice. Have I made myself clear?- 

The saucer-size of the young man's eyes was an adequate answer. 

-I supposed so.- Carlton straightened, just fast enough to tear out a little shiver. -Very good. Now get the hell out of here and say your cheery pals I've already had their names and criminal records, and the numbers of their college rectors.- 

He turned, resuming his march; over the wild beating of his heart he heard fabric rustle, creak of leather shoes and a squeak that sounded very much like: “That guy is crazy! He's a fucking freak!”. 

That _was an acceptable insult._

He suddenly felt slightly sick, thinking how far the flood had brought him this time. God, how would Shawn laugh when he discovered that him, Mr. “Tiny steps and cool form”, had threw himself in passionate rant in defense of love and hope; hell, that he had actually let everyone see he had an heart. Anger is exactly like water: you can somehow ride it, but don't have a damn clue where it would spit out you. Crap. 

A jab in the side, _firm but not hard_ , made him rise his gaze; O'Hara was watching him, with the lopsided smirk that made her look exactly like she should have been at six. It was one of their things he called rituals and she called games: she trying to hit him with as much force as possible, and he telling her she needed to built up. It had been a lot of time from the last time she did it. -You kicked his ass, partner.- 

-I need to keep in exercise.- 

They walked, in silence. He knew that now all would be different: he exposed himself, he exposed Shawn, he loaded down this thing so much that he would never, _ever_ be able again to act as if it never happened, and he wasn't so naive to think a good scare could change that twerp's head. He was out of the safe zone. 

_Everything would change_ . 

-...So why don't you keep in exercise also in filling reports?- O'Hara snapped suddenly -You owe me two weeks of evenings of pizza and lousy paperwork.- 

When he turned to her she was scowling, and seemed really pissed off. She had not been pissed off with him for at least two months, and seeing it was wonderful, because it meant that somehow, sometime he became again the partner you want behind you and you can yell at, a _real_ partner. Behind her, McNeab offering him an enthusiasm-soaked salute, officers casting him glances, snorting, exchanging the bet money, just like after every one of his exploits. As if it was just that, Head Detective being himself, weird and tough like tomorrow and the day after and the day after that; simply because he was bound to crusades and they were bound to follow him. Till the happy ending, or whatever it would be. 

His smile grew wider. 

-Well, O'Hara, you're a Junior Detective.- he stated, ready to avoid another jab. -Consider reports as a passage ritual...- 

_Nothing really changes._


End file.
